Under Pressure
by aussieokie
Summary: In the wake of Henry Prescott's death at Reddington's hand, Donald Ressler is furious with the criminal. So when Reddington requests him to accompany him on a little road trip to do a job for him, Ressler isn't impressed. But things fall apart rapidly, leaving Ressler badly hurt, and he and Red stuck in the middle of nowhere. Part of the 2018 Blacklist Fanfic Exchange on Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

_Part of the 2018 Blacklist Fanfic Exchange, for my recipient Mickey McKeown. So, the mod is supposed to organize who gets what assignment, based on everyone's offers and requests. But as soon as I saw your prompt go up, I HAD to write it, and I requested it. Thanks to EKween for letting me have this one. Thanks Mickey, for requesting such an awesome prompt. So here is your whump fic, Mickey, the deja vu/alternative version of Anslo Garrick. I loved writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it!_

* * *

Donald Ressler sat alone in his dark apartment, and poured himself another glass of Reddington's whisky. He'd known as soon as he'd reached for the bottle - stolen it - Reddington was not going to say a word. Neither of them had as Ressler had walked away, furious. At Reddington for having Prescott killed. At Henry Prescott just for being Henry Prescott. The late Henry Prescott, thanks to Raymond damn Reddington. The nightmare with Henry Prescott and doing his bidding was over. The nightmare of living with its consequences had begun. There was definitely relief also, but he felt nothing but guilt at that relief. The specifics had changed, but he would forever be marred by what he'd done over the past year and a half. He should be in custody tonight. Should be sharing a jail cell with Henry Prescott swapping lies and paying the price. Instead, he was a free man and Prescott had been killed by Reddington.

Raymond bloody Reddington.

He took another gulp of the whisky, no longer tasting it. Only drinking it because it was Reddingtons, and the bastard deserved to have his whisky stolen, at the very least. It was petty, he was well aware of that. But it was how he felt. "Bastard," he said again, staring at the bottle on the table. He wasn't going to drink it all. He wasn't THAT far gone. But he'd made a damn good dent in it. Because despite his feelings, he intended to keep his word to Cooper. He would show up to work in the morning ready to do his job until the task force was finished. He couldn't do that if he was passed out drunk, despite his desire to escape these feelings. And once the task force was finished, so were he and Cooper. Perhaps they'd share a jail cell, he mused. Reminisce on where everything went wrong. He shook his head at that, unable to believe he was in this position.

But over the years he'd found himself in many positions he'd never imagined. Working alongside Raymond Reddington was something absolutely unheard of during the years of his Reddington Task Force. He'd hunted the man across the globe, and now he worked with him every day. But in the ensuing years he'd gone from being the butt of everyone's jokes at being such a damn Boy Scout, to accidentally killing the President's National Security Adviser and covering it up. Nothing was guaranteed anymore. What was the norm today could be the opposite in a year.

His best friend used to be Bobby Jonica. But now...Reddington had called him his friend "blackmail is such a nasty business, particularly among friends, don't you think?"

How the hell had that happened? Number 4 on the FBI Most Wanted List considered the man who had been tasked to hunt him a friend. Enough of a friend to make sure Ressler didn't end up in a 10x10 jail cell. And the most unbelievable part of it all was that Ressler also considered Reddington more than an acquaintance and 'colleague'. Friend? Perhaps a stretch. But enemy? No. Not anymore.

Ressler sighed and put the shot glass down. He'd lost count of how many he'd had, and on top of an empty stomach. To say he had a buzz going on was an understatement. He was drunk.

His eyes dropped to the envelope on his coffee table. Harold Cooper's confession. A confession he never wanted to read or even think about. It was bad enough he'd fallen into the grey. But Cooper? The fact that his own superior was not immune to the stresses of the job had come as a shock, followed rapidly by utter disappointment. And that Cooper had trusted Ressler to hold onto his confession. His boss was now his secret keeper, and he Cooper's. Both of them now tainted, holding the other's fate in their hands. His own confession to the murder of Laurel Hitchin sat in Cooper's filing cabinet. He stared at Cooper's envelope sure of one thing. He never wanted to know the contents of it.

How many more years of doing Reddington's bidding were still to come before both their confessions saw the light of day once the task force was inevitably done? Part of him wished it were over tomorrow so he could face the music. The other part never wanted that day to come.

He stood up unsteadily, stepped to the window and looked out at the city lights. His life was tied to Raymond Reddington, for better or worse. He'd meant what he'd told the criminal. He would not trade being under Prescott's thumb for being under Reddingtons. But he was under Reddington's thumb, despite Reddington's dismissal of that idea. They all were; the entire task force.

And that made him angry at Reddington all over again, as he let rip a string of expletives, each one aimed squarely at Raymond Reddington. But the worst of it was he knew he was blaming Reddington for his own shortcomings. He was the one who had killed Hitchin. He was the one who had called Prescott. He was the one who had broken the law over and over again to pay back that debt.

He walked back to the coffee table and poured one more shot of whisky.

"To you," he said, toasting the air. "You son of a bitch."

And as he downed the whisky and felt it burn his throat, he knew it wasn't only Red he was toasting, but himself.

###

The following morning Ressler arrived at the Post Office, his head definitely feeling worse for wear. He glanced up at Cooper's office, the memory of their meeting the night before fresh in his mind. The lights were on. No matter how early he arrived at work, his boss always beat him. He wanted to talk to Cooper. He also wanted to avoid his boss. Because he didn't know how things stood between them this morning.

On his way back to his office with a cup of black coffee, convincing himself he wasn't hung over, he saw Cooper coming down the metal stairs.

"Agent Ressler, good morning," Cooper greeted him.

Ressler looked up. So that's how it was going to be then. Business as usual. Letters of confession firmly in the realm of the unspoken. "Sir," he replied with a nod, and kept walking.

As Cooper reached the bottom of the stairs beside Ressler, his step paused and he looked Ressler in the eyes. For that one moment, Ressler saw the softening of understanding, the slight nod, the acknowledgment from his boss. Last night he'd been told _"I'm not interested in your feelings, Agent Ressler. I'm not interested in what you want."_ It was loud and clear this morning that his boss was interested. And then it was gone as Cooper left his side. But it was enough.

An hour later, despite two black coffees in him, Ressler's head still hadn't cleared sufficiently to completely listen to a briefing from Liz on a company called Landmark Industries. With the memory of yesterday added to the pounding behind his temples it wasn't easy. His mind would not concentrate on what Liz was saying. Aram was flashing images on the overhead screens and Ressler had to look away as nausea threatened. The briefing was blessedly short, and as they wound up and he expected to head out to talk to a guy whose name he was only half aware of, Cooper looked at him.

"Not you, Agent Ressler." He looked to the two women. "Agents Keen and Navabi, I'd like you two to head out there."

Eyes slid Ressler's way, wondering why he'd been benched, but his colleagues were professional enough to listen to their boss and do as he'd asked. Still, Liz's eyebrow lifted toward him in question as she left. He gave her the tiniest of shrugs in reply. He didn't know either, but after what had happened last night with Prescott, he was concerned.

As the women left and Aram returned to his screen doing whatever it was he did, Ressler walked with Cooper at his bidding.

They walked into Ressler's office, then Cooper lowered his voice. "I have a meeting downtown this morning. The preliminary once over of all the names in Prescott's numerous boxes of files. Apparently there are a couple of FBI agents in it." Cooper omitted the word 'other', but Ressler knew what he meant.

Ressler looked away, unable to hide the mixed feelings, despite knowing Reddington had pulled his own file.

Cooper understood. "Don't worry, I have no doubt at all Reddington hid all traces."

Ressler didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. "I know."

Cooper patted his shoulder. "But that's not why you're not going on this case today. I received a call from Reddington before the briefing."

Ressler looked up warily. "Oh?"

"Apparently he has need of you today on something that he was very tight lipped about," Cooper said.

"Me?" Ressler's stomach dropped, and it wasn't only due to the hangover he was still telling himself he didn't have.

Cooper gave him a knowing smile. "Perhaps our mutual friend feels the need to reach out to you today. Make amends?"

Ressler scowled. Both of them were well aware Reddington had killed Prescott to keep Ressler out of jail and gone against every principle they and the Bureau stood for.

"Anyway, he'll be here within the next half hour. He didn't say what he needed you for, despite my asking him, though he did say to dress casually and bring your gun," Cooper added with a small smile.

"Great," Ressler said, sighing. Just what he needed. A day of bonding with Raymond damn Reddington.

"I'm sure things will be fine," Cooper told him. "It will give you two time to discuss things."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Ressler replied, then as Cooper dismissed him with a small smile, he headed toward the locker room to change out of his suit and tie.


	2. Chapter 2

When the car pulled up in the underground parking lot, Ressler was taken aback. Reddington was driving. As the passenger window lowered, Ressler peered inside. "Where's Dembe?" he asked. He wanted to add, _you piss him off too?_ but held his tongue.

"Circumstances dictate that I go alone," Red replied. "With you, of course."

Ressler scowled at the criminal. Of course.

"Get in, Donald."

"I'll drive," Ressler replied, leaning back from the window, but Red stopped him.

"You don't know where we're going. I do. Get in."

Ressler pulled open the passenger door and climbed in.

"Besides, chances are I'm more sober." Reddington waited for him to strap in, before adding, "How's the head?"

Clenching his jaw as they pulled away from the Post Office, Ressler didn't look at Red, instead seeing the numerous shots of whisky he'd drank and the resulting hangover he'd fought all morning. "Fine."

Reddington glanced his way, gave the softest of knowing chuckles, and then nodded to a bottle of water in the console between them. "I thought you might need that." Ressler glanced at the water, but he wasn't going to give Red the satisfaction of taking it. They drove for some time, before Reddington sighed, looking over at his passenger. "You're still upset with me."

Ressler shook his head slowly, giving a humorless half smile. Of course he was damn well upset.

Still heading out of town, Reddington drove through the traffic in an easy fashion, in much the same way he waltzed through rooms. As if he owned the road at his feet.

"Donald, what is it about me being a criminal that you don't understand, even after all these years and all we've been through?"

Ressler looked down. That was what he'd asked himself a dozen times last night, staring at the bottom of a whisky glass. Why was it that Reddington could still do this to him, when he damn well knew the man inside out? He had no answer to why it bothered him when Reddington inevitably showed his true colors. "Can we just drop it?" he replied, looked pointedly out of the window.

Reddington, never one to be told no, continued unabated. "Perhaps you're under the impression that my association with the Bureau and task force would inevitably lead me further away from my criminal tendencies?"

Ressler didn't reply at first, because yes, that had occurred to him. He himself had stepped into the dark and become someone he hadn't imagined he could. Would that have always been his fate, or was it his close proximity to Reddington's world that had contributed? He didn't know and that ate at him. In a perfect world was it possible that being so closely tied to law enforcement personnel daily would also have lifted Reddington somewhat away from his past? He didn't know that either, but doubted that was going to happen. Red was too entrenched in his world.

"No," he told Reddington. "You are who you are." Prescott's death rose up between them like an insurmountable wall. "You kill without conscience when things become inconvenient for you rather than face the consequences of your actions."

"I do what I must do, Donald, to maintain this position with the task force, and the front I must keep up with my associates. I walk a tightrope. You of all people are well aware of that."

Ressler was aware of it. But he didn't like it. "Well, I guess that makes it okay, then," he said, not meaning a word of it.

"I told you last night why I disposed of Henry Prescott. It benefited both of us. And the result is that you're not in jail, my arrangement with the FBI continues intact, and here we are today, still working together."

Ressler slid his eyes across to Reddington. "That's what this is today, isn't it? You proving to me that what we do is necessary."

"Something like that, yes."

Ressler didn't reply. It was pointless. Red would never see things his way, nor would he ever be comfortable with the criminal's mode of operation. And yet, here he was, sitting with the man about to help him again. Was it for the sake of the task force or just something Reddington needed? It was all too much to comprehend at times. Ressler rubbed his eyes, willing the headache to subside. It was difficult enough today without having to think too hard.

###

They drove for some time, leaving the city behind them. Ressler stirred in his seat and sat up straighter. Lost in thought, as well as nursing his hangover, he'd retreated into himself, barely noticing the change in scenery until now. He eyed the bottle of water beside him, and with a sigh, picked it up and unscrewed the lid, taking a gulp in an effort to clear his head. "So what are we doing today?" Something else was bothering him. "And why the hell did it have to be out here in the middle of nowhere?"

Red chuckled. "That's the spirit, Donald. I thought you'd never ask. I need to meet a man by the name of Ethan Quinn, and then I'll have a job for you to do."

Ressler sighed. "What job?"

"Once our meeting is over, I'll need you to take Ethan into custody."

"What? Why?"

"In an effort to stifle a direction his employer is going in, Ethan is giving up company secrets to me today. His life would be over the second his colleagues found out about his dalliance in corporate espionage. Once he's given me the information, he will need the protection of your side of the fence."

"I would have thought you were more than capable of giving him a new life and identity and getting him squared away," Ressler said.

"True, I am. But Ethan has his reasons for wanting to be taken into custody."

Ressler looked away. He'd also had his own reasons yesterday, yet Red had put a stop to that in no uncertain terms.

Reddington looked across at Ressler, as if understanding the direction his thoughts had gone. "It's not the same thing, Donald."

Ressler stared at him, opened his mouth, then thought it better not to reply.

###

Some time later they passed by the chained off entrance to a National Park that was closed for the season, and then shortly after Red turned off the main road into a narrower, unmarked road that began to climb.

Ressler looked around. "Here?" He looked down at the drop off to his right and a mountain lake gleaming in the early afternoon sun in the distance.

"Yes. A closed mine," Red chuckled. "Ethan has a flair for the dramatics."

"Unlike you, of course," Ressler replied dryly, still sipping on his water that wasn't helping his hangover lift. Or improve his mood.

Red smiled, "Of course not. No one comes up here now, but Landmark still have shares in the property."

"Landmark?" Ressler asked, recalling the name of the company Liz had briefed them on that morning.

"Yes, Donald. This is all related to the case I gave Elizabeth today. We get Ethan safely away. Your team also get the CEO of Landmark."

Ressler found himself wishing he'd been able to listen more to Liz that morning. "What is Ethan giving you today?"

"Proof that Landmark has been engaging in highly illegal practices in the construction industry."

Ressler didn't need to know any more than that, but was curious. He was also feeling belligerent and testy and the glare of the sun through his window wasn't helping.

"Why me? And why today?"

"You're not enjoying our field trip?" Red asked, avoiding Ressler's question. At Ressler's silence, he relented. "Partly because of yesterday. I feel I've disappointed you.

Ressler stared at him. "Disappointed?" He shook his head. "Well, that's one word to describe it."

"I hope that one day you can understand why I did what I did with Henry Prescott."

"I do understand why," Ressler replied, then stared out the window again. "Doesn't mean I'm happy about it. At all."

"Fair enough."

Red drove slowly up the narrow road. "I've known Ethan a great many years. He and I were in the Naval Academy together. Both our paths went in different directions after that."

Ressler shook his head at that. "You became a criminal."

"Yes," Red replied, keeping his eyes on the road. "But the truth is, Donald, that I don't trust Ethan's welfare with anyone but you."

Ressler just looked at him, but Reddington seemed lost in thought, perhaps remembering an earlier time when he was in line for Admiral.

They made their way up the winding road with a sharp drop off on one side and trees rising steeply up on the hill side of the road. Across a wide valley from them, several jagged scars of granite were carved into the cliff face. Below them on the hillside were more signs of excavation. The remnants of the abandoned mine. They rounded a bend, pulling up beside a tunnel wide enough for large trucks to drive through cut into the hillside, black inside the deeper it went. They parked in a small area close to the road. Above them was raw granite, and below them, trees had been cut below the short guard rail, opening up the view.

Red shut off the car and without the AC, it immediately felt warmer. Ressler opened the door to let in some fresh air, before stepping out of the car.

"Here," said Red, tossing Ressler the car keys over the roof of the Benz. "You should have sobered up enough to drive Ethan and I back after our meeting."

Ressler pocketed the keys, looking at Red silently. He hated it when the criminal was right.

###

Ressler thought Ethan hadn't arrived yet, but when Reddington strode purposefully away from the car toward the dark tunnel, he followed. The weight of his hand gun in his shoulder holster under his jacket was reassuring as they walked into the darkness. Entering the rocky overhang and stepping into the tunnel, it took Ressler's eyes a few moments to adjust to the dark after the bright sunlight. They spotted a vehicle parked further back in the tunnel, then saw a man walking toward them. He appeared to be about Reddington's age, and slightly built.

"Ethan, good to see you, my old friend," said Red, stepping forward.

"It is good to see you too, Raymond," Ethan said, speaking softly, his voice wavering as the two men clasped hands.

"I trust the family is well?" Red asked, and Ressler saw the flash that crossed Ethan's eyes. He knew Reddington had also seen it.

"Ethan?"

"I have this for you, as per our agreement," Ethan replied, sidestepping the question and reaching inside his coat pocket. Ressler's spidey sense dialed up a notch, but all Ethan pulled out was a thick envelope in a zip lock bag. "It's all in there, Raymond. A thumb drive with everything, and some papers."

"Thank you," Red replied, pocketing the envelope.

Ethan hesitated, then looked to Ressler, licked his lips, then his eyes fell on Red again.

"Ethan, what have you done?" Red asked, knowing by the look in Ethan's eyes.

His voice dropping to a whisper as three men appeared from behind Ethan, Reddington asked, "Why, Ethan? You're dying. Why do this now?"

"Yes. But my boy is very much alive. They have my boy. They will return Chris safely if I hand you over to them. I am sorry, Raymond. Truly sorry," Ethan said, tears forming in his eyes.

"So am I," Reddington said, taking a step back from Ethan and regarding the approaching men.

Ressler had whipped his firearm out at the sight of the men, and stood ready. "Red..."

"Stand down, Donald."

Ethan glanced behind them as the three men got closer, then leaned close to Red. "Raymond. My son. Find Chris!" he hissed.

The first of the men had approached. "Raymond Reddington, in the flesh," he said.

"Zack Peterson," Red said evenly. "I heard you were dead."

"I heard the same thing about you," Peterson replied, his gun aimed at Red. "Then I heard an even better story that you were in bed with the Feds." His eyes swiveled to Ressler. "And you have Fed written all over you."

"Raymond, forgive me," Ethan said, his voice barely audible.

Reddington's eyes fixed on Ethan. "What exactly am I forgiving you for, Ethan? That you have double crossed me, or that you had no idea they were going to do this and you have inadvertently led me into a trap?" Red knew the truth, but spoke for the benefit of Peterson.

Ethan didn't answer as a pistol was pushed hard to his head by Peterson. "I know you won't come with me to save your sorry ass, Reddington, but I think you would to save a friend," Peterson said.

Ressler's gun rose, pointing at Peterson. "Drop it!"

Reddington waved him down. "Lower your gun, Donald. No one needs to get hurt today."

Ressler shook his head. "No. I said drop it!" he repeated, gun still held on Peterson.

"Donald."

Ressler was torn, but at Red's arm on his, he lowered his weapon, but still held it at the ready. He could take down one, but three would be a challenge while there was a gun held to Ethan.

"I'll shoot him if you don't come with us, Reddington," Peterson said, his gun still held on Ethan.

"Red, please," Ethan said.

"That won't be necessary, Peterson," said Red. "I'm surrendering my firearm." But as Red pulled his gun, he didn't drop it nor surrender it. He fired, not at Peterson, but at Ethan, hitting him between the eyes.

"Son of a bitch!" Ressler cried, watching in horror as Red killed the man they'd come to meet. Ethan had the briefest moment of clarity in his eyes and then it was gone, forever extinguished as he hit the ground. Peterson recovered himself quickly, turning his gun toward Red. Ressler's gun was up again, and his bullet found Peterson a split second after Red fired at Ethan. Peterson dropped dead to the ground beside Ethan. Shots rang out around them as the two other men opened fire. Ressler got off one quick shot, which only dispersed the men behind a parked truck.

"Move!" Ressler told Red, dragging him behind him. He dodged behind another old truck, narrowly escaping a bullet that came whizzing from the dark behind them. As Ressler let off another shot, holding Reddington down, he spied more men running from the darkness of the tunnel.

"Go! There are too many of them!" Ressler called, pushing Red toward the tunnel opening, using the truck as temporary cover.

They ran into the daylight, momentarily blinded as Ressler dragged Reddington to one side, dodging another bullet. "Get to the car!" he yelled at Red, running for their parked vehicle. Ressler turned as the men behind them ran into the daylight.

A shot rang out in the bright sun. Ressler only had a second to react and jump aside as the man running toward him dropped in a splatter of blood. Reddington looked appreciatively across at the ridge. There was only one person it could be, and Ressler knew it just by the look in Red's eyes. Dembe. That's why he wasn't here. With thoughts of _"I'm the marksman and should have been the one across the valley"_ along with _"Red knew this could be a trap"_ running through his head, he took shelter behind their vehicle as the two gunmen disappeared back into the darkness of the tunnel. Red also took cover behind the car, between the vehicle and the guard rail behind him.

"I'd rather take you alive, Reddington, but I'll kill you if I must," a voice called out from the darkness of the tunnel, staying out of range of Dembe's rifle. Ressler glanced at Red. "Stay down," he hissed as Red moved.

"But your pet Fed is expendable," the voice continued from the tunnel. "Him, we don't need."

"Get in the car," Ressler told Red, "I'll get in through the passenger side. Dembe should keep them at bay long enough for us to get out of here." Red nodded, and moved to open the back door to climb in. As Ressler went for the front passenger door, something struck Reddington, knocking him off his feet. One of Peterson's men had appeared from nowhere around the vehicle and was now hell bent on taking Reddington. The impact slammed Red into Ressler who dropped his gun as he hit the dirt. Ressler didn't think twice, sprang to his feet and rammed their opponent. They struggled, the man with one hand on Red's neck, and the other holding off Ressler. Red's attacker went back to his original target and pulled out his gun, trying to aim it at Red, now apparently taking his bosses 'dead or alive' option to heart.

"No!" Ressler cried, pummeling into the attacker and shoving him out of the way. The bullet missed Red by inches, and now the man turned his attention on Ressler, grabbing Ressler up off the ground by his jacket. But Ressler was faster. Retrieving his gun from the gravel, he fired and hit the man in the heart, dropping him instantly. Ressler fell back as the man suddenly let go of him. Unable to keep his footing, his heart lurched as he lost his balance and toppled over the guard rail. From the corner of his eye he saw Reddington grab for him.

"Donald!"

But Red was just out of reach. He couldn't stop Ressler going over.

For a sickening moment, Ressler was terrified he was free falling off the cliff and plummeting to his death far below. But in seconds, he slammed into the ground, knocking the wind out of himself as he rolled over and over down the embankment, picking up speed on his downward hurtle between the tall trees. His gun flew from his hand as he bounced down the steep drop. Grabbing at tree trunks around him, unable to stop himself, he plunged down the steep embankment with seemingly no end in sight. Low branches struck him, whipping painfully into his face and hands, scratching his torso as his shirt pulled loose from his belt. Somewhere in the pain and terror of the fall, he was thankful he was not wearing a tie that would have caught on something and broken his neck.

There was no steering, no possible way to change direction and slow himself. It was just him and the hard ground and the half airborne plummet through the steep terrain as the sky and ground spun sickeningly around him. He slammed into a broken tree branch, feeling the squelch as it thrust into the side of his abdomen, gouging him deeply. He cried out in pain, and just as quickly as the branch had torn into him, it pulled out as his downward plunge continued. His head hit a large tree as he bounced past it, and again he yelled out. The sky and ground still spun around him, but now black spots filled his vision. The world was still spinning, but mercifully it quickly faded to black and he knew no more.


	3. Chapter 3

As Ressler fell, Red's heart jumped in his chest. Without a moment's thought, hauling the dead man off him, he dropped over the guard rail himself, going after Ressler. Shouts sounded above him, and a shot rang out. An answering higher pitched shot filled the air. Dembe was still on the far ridge, keeping the men pinned down.

"I said I want Reddington alive!" someone called, but Red was climbing lower down the hill, out of their range now. The sun was high in the sky as he made his way down the steep embankment, but under the trees everything faded into a deep green light. Hanging onto tree trunks and lower branches for balance, his shoulder muscles clenched with the effort. Surely Ressler hadn't fallen this far? But the broken tree branches and disturbed ground of what could only be the passage of the agent led him downward in a marked trail. Cursing the lower light under the trees, Reddington forged onward and downward, his hands scraping past rough tree trunks. The rubber soles of his dress shoes helped prevent him from landing at the bottom of the ridge in an ungainly heap, where he was now positive Ressler had ended up. He didn't dare call out as he made his way cautiously down. He scowled, angry at himself for how things had turned out. But what was done, was done, and no point berating himself on it further. He needed to find Ressler, then get them both out of here.

Almost at the bottom of the ridge, his shoulders screaming, the trickle of a stream bubbling nearby reached his ears. Unseen through the trees, the water was close, marking the bottom of the ridge. He exhaled, frustrated. _Where the bloody hell was Ressler?_ Moving more to his right, hanging on to slim tree trunks to keep his balance, something caught his eye. There! The agent lay on his side, back toward him, stopped in his downward plunge by a well-placed tree that had prevented him from dropping all the way into the stream. Reddington pushed on through the trees, concerned at the lack of movement in Ressler.

"Donald!" he hissed, barely wanting to raise his voice at all.

No answer. The FBI agent didn't stir.

Reaching Ressler, Red squatted in front of him, noting the multiple bleeding scratches on his face and hands. Ressler's black shirt was torn, and his displaced clothing revealed his scratched torso. Dirt, leaves and twigs were caught in the agents clothing and hair.

Placing his fingers on Ressler's neck, Red was rewarded with a slow, steady pulse. He was alive, but out cold. Another study of Ressler in the green, faded light revealed limbs that appeared intact under the dark jeans, with nothing bent horribly out of shape to indicate broken bones. But looks could be deceiving, he knew that. Ressler's wristwatch was shattered. On impulse, he lifted Ressler's jacket and reached into the inner pocket finding an equally shattered phone that was rendered useless. He'd seen the agent keep a small flashlight under his work suits, and sure enough, he had one in his zippered jacket pocket.

"Always prepared. Such a good Boy Scout, Donald," Red whispered, leaning closer, examining with the light, and glad of the agent's predictability.

The beam from the flashlight revealed a patch of sticky blood underneath Ressler. Concerned, Reddington maneuvered the still unconscious Ressler onto his back, moved the jacket aside then lifted the shirt higher for a better look.

"Oh, dear," he said, shining the light onto a deep, bleeding gash in the agent's left side. Judging by the broken branches Red had seen on the way down, Ressler had been pierced by one of them during his downward plummet. Red was leaning down, pressing fingers around the deep gash for a better look, forcing fresh blood from the wound, when a groan came from Ressler. Lit in the narrow beam of the flashlight, Ressler's eyes fluttered open within his scratched, dirt stained face. He looked up at Reddington wordlessly.

"Welcome back, Donald."

###

It took a few seconds for recollection to return, and once it did, memories hit Ressler full on. He'd stopped falling, yet it still felt as if he was spinning down the cliff. His head hurt. His side hurt. His ribs hurt. Hell, everything hurt. And Reddington was making it worse.

"Don't touch me," he panted, but Red ignored him, continuing to stifle the flow of blood. Reddington was shining the flashlight - his own, he noticed - onto the bleeding wound in his side, with his fingers still pressed into it to stem the bleeding.

"Will you stop?" Ressler gasped through clenched teeth, flinching painfully away from the criminal's fingers. "You're not helping."

Reddington regarded Ressler coolly, dropping his hand. "Fine. I don't know how long Dembe can hold them at bay up there, but we do need to stop the bleeding if we're to get moving. That is, unless you're quite content to lay here in the dirt and wait for them to come down here?"

It wasn't a thought he relished, and with an effort, Ressler managed to haul himself up into a sitting position, reluctantly allowing Reddington to assist. He sat still, gasping, eyes closed, waiting for the pain in his side to ease after the movement. It hurt to breathe. He'd had enough broken ribs to know he had a couple of cracked ones in there. Ressler leaned his head back on the tree trunk, and opened his eyes again, looking up at the steep incline. Reddington was right, and he knew the criminal's sarcasm was to get a bite out of him to get his ass moving. They couldn't stay here.

"Does anything feel broken?" Red asked, and Ressler regarded him, now seeing the real concern in the criminal's eyes.

"Ribs," he said, then painfully moved each limb in turn, the only painful jolt from a knee that appeared to be swelling under his jeans. Reddington watched keenly, his hand on Ressler's shoulder. "I don't think anything else is broken," Ressler added, and heard Reddington's relieved sigh beside him.

Red shone the flashlight full into Ressler's face, and he slammed his eyes shut in response, wincing at the bright light. "Damn it, Reddington!"

"How's the head?" Red asked.

It was the second time today Red had asked him that. Ressler glared at the criminal. "I'm sure it feels better than Ethan's."

Reddington had the decency to look abashed, but ignored the remark. "You likely have one hell of a concussion." Red looked around them. They were alone for now, but who knew for how long. "Can you stand?"

"Yes," Ressler said, hoping like hell he could. Pulling his legs under him, he struggled to his feet, grasping at the tree trunk. The world tipped sideways and black spots appeared in his vision. Fresh blood leaked from his torn left side, running down his dark jeans. He wavered on his feet, but he _was_ standing.

Reddington watched him worriedly, then removed his own tie and reached into a pocket for his folded handkerchief. "The best we can do for a dressing, I'm afraid."

"Hold this," Red told him, handing him the folded handkerchief. Ressler accepted it silently, willing the world to stop swaying. As he held the folded cloth against his side, he allowed Reddington to reach around his waist with the tie, binding the dressing against the wound under his torn shirt. It was tight, and Ressler sucked in a sharp breath but didn't complain.

"We need to get out of here," Red said. They both looked again at the steep incline they'd come down. "If we can find somewhere less steep, we could make it back to the car." He shook his head. "But they'll be waiting for us up there."

"It wouldn't do us any good," Ressler replied as his vision settled, patting his jeans pocket with one hand while his other clutched his left side. "I lost the car keys on the way down."

Reddington gazed up at the incline, then shook his head. "I'd never find them."

"Shit. My phone is toast," Ressler said, pulling the smashed iPhone out of his pocket. This just kept getting better and better.

"I noticed. It does complicate matters further," Red replied. "Good news though, is that I found your gun near the top of the slope. And if you're sure you won't shoot me, I'll return it."

Ressler scowled at the criminal, and held out his hand. Red returned the weapon, then Ressler managed to slip it back into his shoulder holster. Ethan's death sprang to mind again. "Why did you kill him?"

"Not now. We need to go, Donald," Red told him, "I'll say a quick prayer that you are able to walk."

Ressler said the same prayer, and they set off, walking along the small stream bed. Ressler hung back, each step jolting through his body. He was furious with Reddington, but now wasn't the time to discuss it. They needed to get moving and do it quietly. Another shot from above reached their ears.

"Dembe can't hold them off forever," Red said, glancing up at the high ridge behind them.

"Where are we going?" Ressler asked after a few minutes of silence. His ribs burned in pain, while his left hand pressed into his bleeding side as he limped along.

"If I'm right, we're heading in the direction of the National Park," Red replied, walking in front of Ressler. "I had arranged to meet Dembe near the Park Ranger's station after the meeting."

"And if you're wrong?" Ressler asked, irritated, hurting and not in the mood for any of this.

"Then I don't know where the hell we will end up," Reddington replied, looking up through the tall trees at the dappled light and adjusting his fedora. "But at least we'll have fresh water."

Ressler didn't reply as they made their way slowly along the stream bed. Great plan, he thought, but didn't voice that opinion.

###

"I think we've lost them, for now," Red said after 30 minutes of walking, looking back in the direction they'd come from. So far there had been no further sign of pursuit and two more distant shots from Dembe's rifle.

"They probably think we're dead," Ressler said, weaving slightly as he followed Red, head down.

"I doubt that," Red replied, looking back and watching the agent. "Well, they know I was alive, at least." He stopped, and Ressler almost walked into him. "Donald, allow me to assist you." He reached an arm out, but Ressler kept out of his way.

"I'm fine."

"And I'm the King of Persia."

"I got this," Ressler said through clenched teeth, walking again. "Your Highness."

Reddington shook his head. They were still following the creek, but it had been gradually widening. What had previously been a shallow stream they could easily jump over if they'd felt so inclined was now a good 8 feet wide and running with a fair current.

"I think this water is draining into that lake we saw from the road, which is in the National Park, so we need to keep following it," Red said.

Ressler didn't reply. He just kept on walking, following the stream bed. Blood was still seeping through the makeshift dressing around his middle, staining his shirt and jeans. He wanted to stop and sit, just for a moment, but was afraid he'd never get moving again if he did. He looked at Reddington, as another shot rang out from Dembe's rifle.

"What the hell did you do to piss them off?" Ressler asked.

"Oh, any number of things, I'm sure," Red replied, not breaking his stride.

Ressler scowled at him. Of that, he had no doubt. His anger bubbled to the surface, and he let it. "That's what you do, isn't it? Piss people off. Kill them when they become an inconvenience or cross you."

"Now is not the time, Agent Ressler."

Ressler closed his eyes a moment, both wanting to calm down yet needing the anger to stay in him.

"We need to keep moving. I don't know when Dembe can leave that ridge, but heading for that Park Ranger's office is our only option. It's where he will go to find us."

Ressler walked just behind Reddington, and the criminal stole a glance back at the agent. Red softened his tone. "How are you doing, Donald?"

Ressler kept on putting one foot in front of the other, pale faced and swaying a little, hand clutching his side. "I'm fine."

Reddington looked at Ressler's pale features. He wasn't fine. He stretched his arm out once more to Ressler's arm. "Donald, I know you're angry, but-"

Ressler cut him off with a scowl and a raised hand, blood on it after holding it to his side. "Don't!" he snapped. Yes, he was angry. But he needed that anger to keep propelling himself forward. He clung to it, using it to put one step in front of the other.

###

Ressler couldn't determine what hurt more. His bleeding side, his ribs, or his throbbing head. The culmination of it all wore at him and try as he might, despite his anger at Reddington fueling his progress, he couldn't walk any faster. Several times he almost stopped to tell Reddington to go on without him. But he didn't. Because despite how bad he felt, part of him was still an agent on duty, with an informant. He needed to make sure Red made it to safety, even with what the man had done.

They stopped in the shade by the creek where Ressler washed the caked blood off his hands once more. They took a moment to sit by the stream, and drank deeply of the fresh water and washed themselves down.

"We should look at that wound, and clean it out," Red said, looking worriedly at Ressler. Blood was dripping from the rent in his side.

"Just leave it," Ressler panted. The last thing he needed was Red poking around on him. He closed his eyes, willing the black dancing spots in his vision to quiet, holding his head in his hands. Reddington's voice seemed to come from afar when the criminal spoke.

"...bad is your headache?"

Ressler didn't open his eyes, and just exhaled heavily. "I can handle it." His head felt twice its normal size. It was rather disconcerting and he opened his eyes again. "Let's go," he said and struggled to his feet. Swaying, he reached out for a nearby tree trunk and clung to it, eyes closed again, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass and trying not to throw up. He retched, but only stream water came up before he got himself under control.

"Donald," he heard Reddington say, and felt the criminals hand on his arm once more.

As the dizzy spell eased, Ressler opened his eyes. "Get off me," he said. He shook Red's hand off him and started walking again.

Clouds now covered the sun, dropping the temperature below the trees. After the heat of the day it was a relief and Ressler felt a little more coherent without the sun beating down on them.

Both of them paused at the sound of a distant shot. "Dembe," Red said, and Ressler nodded.

"You knew this could be a trap," Ressler panted, resuming his walk.

"It was a possibility," Red replied.

"How could you know they took his son?"

"I didn't."

Ressler needed his breath to keep walking, and didn't reply. A darker cloud moved across the sun, and both of them looked up.

"Oh, that's not good," Reddington said. Storm clouds were rolling in, full of rain.

"We're going to need to find some shelter, both from Peterson's cronies, and the storm." Reddington stopped and looked around them at the sea of trees. "And the obvious place is up there." He pointed at a large granite scar on the hillside above them, away from the road. "How do you feel about walking uphill?"

Ressler was leaning against a tree and looked in the direction Red was pointing. The hillside wasn't nearly as steep as where he'd done his swan dive on the way down. It was doable. He hoped. "Piece of cake," he said.

"That's the spirit, Donald."

It was hard. Much harder than Ressler had envisaged. The gradient forced them to lean forward as they walked, grabbing at the tree trunks as they made their way up the incline. Both of them were sweating again, despite the lateness of the afternoon and the temperature drop. A loud rumble of thunder made them quicken their pace slightly.

"We do not want to be under these trees when that lightning starts," Red said as they paused briefly, clinging to a tree trunk, then pulled Ressler's arm to help get him moving again. Ressler didn't have the energy to shake Red's hand off him this time. It was either comply, or fall flat on his face. The wind was picking up around them, blowing loose leaves under the trees. "Come on, Donald," Red urged.

Ressler didn't expend his breath on a reply. With his head pounding, and dizziness making the ground lurch, he had no choice but to allow Red to help him haul his butt up the hill. As if to add insult to injury, the rain started to fall, making the ground slippery below their feet. Ressler stumbled, unable to keep his balance. In a heart stopping moment, he pictured himself hurtling down this hill also, and managed to grab at a tree trunk and hang on.

"I've got you," Red said in his ear. "Put your arm around my shoulder."

Ressler shook his head. "No. I got this."

"Damn it, Donald. If you don't let me help you, we'll both be stuck out here."

As Ressler lost his footing again and the rain increased, he gave in and put his arm around Reddington's shoulder. "Fine," he panted. "This way we can both fall."

Together, they made their way up the incline, hanging onto trees as they went. Twice Ressler slipped and fell to his knees, and twice Reddington hauled him back up. Ressler begrudgingly had to admire the criminal. He had the strength of an ox.

"Come on, Donald. We're almost there."

A flash of lightning lit up the sky and the thunder rolled across the hillside above them. They were wet through, but kept going. The cut in the hillside was visible above them now complete with an overhang they could shelter under.

"Almost there," Red said, hauling Ressler up with him.

Ressler felt terrible. He was bleeding profusely and could hardly see straight. The ground lurched nauseatingly before him.

To Reddington's relief a small shed was off to one side, and that was what he now dragged Ressler toward. "Excellent. Better than I had hoped for," he said, still encouraging Ressler.

Another flash lit up the sky as thunder shook the ground beneath their feet, filling the air with an ear splitting crack. Behind them a tree exploded, and the crackling smell of ozone reached them. They instinctively ducked. "Move!" Reddington urged, dragging the weight of Ressler with him again. Ressler leaned on Red, hating that he needed the support of the criminal. With his head spinning and nauseous with the pain, somehow he kept going.

"Donald, have you ever considered losing some weight?" Red asked him close to his ear as he took the agent's weight, all but dragging him toward the shed above them and to their right.

Ressler's stomach roiled again and he stopped dead, dropped to his knees, and threw up.

Red's hand patted Ressler's back as he finished retching. "Not quite what I had in mind, but bravo on the effort."

Ressler stood up again, silently wishing he hadn't missed Reddington's shoes. Serve the bastard right.

"Are you done?" Reddington asked, looking up as more lightning flashed across the sky and the thunder roared. Ressler nodded, then took a step up the slope, leaning on Reddington once more as the criminal hauled him toward the small shed.

"Donald, look. Down there beside the lake." Ressler followed Red's pointing finger as best he could. In the next lightning flash, a red roofed building was visible by the lake. The Ranger Station. It didn't look that far. As the crow flew, at least. "That's where we'll head as soon as this storm blows itself out," Red told him then dragged him the remainder of the distance to the small shed.

After a well-placed rock broke the padlock on the shed door, they both retreated into opposite corners of the small building, taking a break from walking and the weather. It was getting darker as the sun set behind the dark storm clouds. Ressler dropped to the floor, leaning his head back against the wooden wall, shaking and breathing hard from pain and the exertion. Without a word Reddington removed his jacket, then his vest and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"What the hell are you doin'?"

"Getting you bandaged up. And I won't hear no for an answer," Red replied. He finished getting his shirt off, then whisked off his white t-shirt underneath. "Never let it be said, Donald, that I wouldn't give you the shirt off my back," he said, then proceeded to tear his t-shirt into strips.

Ressler was in no mood to argue anymore. With some effort, he got his own wet jacket and shirt off, then his blood soaked undershirt. Reddington took off the tie he'd previously placed, and the useless handkerchief. In the light of the flashlight, he inspected the deep wound. It needed surgery and stitches, and a lot of them. At his sigh, Ressler looked up at him. "I know, quit poking on it. There's nothing you can do."

"There is always something to be done," Red told him, expertly placing the strips of cloth over the bleeding wound as Ressler grit his teeth to stop from crying out. "You're losing a lot of blood," Red said, tying off the strips one at a time around Ressler. As sweat broke out on Ressler from the pain, Reddington placed his hand on Ressler's forehead a moment. His skin was cool to the touch, and he knew what was happening. "You're going into shock."

"I know," Ressler gasped. "Been there, done that, remember?"

"I do remember," Red told him quietly. "And you and I both survived that."

Ressler didn't answer as the rain picked up outside, pounding on the roof almost as if it were pounding on his head. He closed his eyes and shivered. He felt Reds hand pat his raised knee, before he began to inspect the contents of the shed.

Reddington's voice came out of the dark corner across from him after a few minutes. "How are you doing, Donald?"

Ressler didn't know. He ran an internal assessment of himself. Left side on fire. Check. Ribs screaming. Check. Head throbbing like a son of a bitch. Check Mate. "I'm fine," he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper above the storm.

Ressler didn't see Reds worried look from the other side of the shed. "Don't fall asleep, Donald. I know you want to, but you need to stay awake."

"I'm good," he replied, slowly opening his eyes. He was desperate for rest. Wanted so badly to close his eyes and just rest. But he didn't let himself.


	4. Chapter 4

Reddington stood at the dirty window, peering out at the storm. "As soon as this lets up, we need to get going again," he said, turning back to Ressler worriedly. The agent didn't look like he could go much further.

"Are you okay?" Red asked.

"Yes."

Ressler half heard the criminal through his pounding headache. Hail was bouncing off the roof of the small building, and he couldn't hear himself think. In the dim light of the shed, he moved a little, his breath catching at the pain. But he wasn't okay, and he knew it. He'd also made a decision. "You go. I'll only slow you down."

"What? No, Donald. Those men may want me alive," he said, leaning down to Ressler, "well, some of them," he added, "but they'll kill you in an instant if they find you. You can't stay here."

"I'm armed," Ressler panted, patting his jacket where his shoulder holster lay.

"That may be, but you're in no shape to fire it. By the looks of it, you can't even see straight."

"I can still shoot the bastards," Ressler gasped, then leaned his head forward off the wall to face Red, opening his eyes slowly in the darkness. "Go and meet Dembe. Whoever those men are, they could catch up to you if you wait on me."

Reddington shook his head. "Not an option."

"You need to get out of here," Ressler said, raising his voice now. "You're an informant for the Bureau, and it's my job to make sure you get out of here in one piece."

"This isn't about your job, Agent Ressler. Don't give me that line. We both go or we both stay," Red countered.

"No." Ressler shook his head. "You can send someone back for me."

"We don't have that sort of time, Donald. If you stay here, you die, either at our pursuers hand or you bleed out." He moved closer to Ressler in the semi dark, "And I will not let that happen to you, do you understand? End of discussion."

In response, Ressler closed his eyes as a wave of pain and nausea hit him, and a gasp escaped his lips. Reddington's hand found his right shoulder in support. "We don't have any choice. And I'm well aware of how difficult it's going to be for you to keep moving. I'm sorry, Donald."

"Fine," Ressler panted, his determination now returning with their path settled, or rather, it settled for him. "Then let's get it over with."

"If it helps, I wish there were an easier option for you," Red told him, leaning down to Ressler. "Come on, let's get you up. The sun has almost set and Dembe will not be able to hold them off once it's dark."

Ressler let out an involuntary cry of pain as Reddington put his hand around his back and helped him up. He leaned on Red while his dizziness and nausea settled a little, hating once more that he needed the support.

"I've got you," Red told him, hoisting Ressler's right arm over his shoulders as he held him on his feet. "One foot in front of the other, and you and I will both make it out of this alive."

Before they exited the shed, Red paused to light an old, dry candle and placed it near the small window.

Ressler averted his eyes from the sudden painful flicker of light. "You have matches?" he asked, finding that almost funny under the circumstances.

"I do. I make it a rule never to go anywhere without a few water resistant matches. Handy in situations such as this," he said, looking around them, "or if you need to cauterize someone's leg," he added.

Ressler groaned at that memory. "Don't set fire to me today, you bastard," he replied, leaning on Reddington.

Red chuckled, as he kept hold of Ressler. "This will keep them focused on the shed for a little while, once they start tracking us."

They made their way from the shed, as it dripped with the rain that was now down to a soft sprinkle. They sidestepped puddles in the gravel of the excavated ground, before dropping over the edge and back under the trees, heading downward toward the creek. Ressler was only half aware of their descent. In the dark the trees loomed up around them as a light mist circled, while the wet undergrowth was slippery underfoot. Half way down he gasped to Red. "Stop. Stop." And as Red paused Ressler leaned against a tree and threw up, his vision red and pounding behind his closed eyes with every retch. "Oh, God," he gasped at the pain in his head, trying to steady himself. His head was about to explode. "Leave me here," he whispered in the dark. "I can't..."

"Yes you can. You must," Red told him, hoisting Ressler back up again.

Ressler tried to hang back and assert his authority even though it was obvious who was in charge. And that forced a glimmer of anger back into his brain which he immediately nurtured and encouraged. "No," he said, trying to hold back. But Reddington was stronger and dragged him on.

"Dammit, Red!"

Reddington stopped, and patiently turned to Ressler.

"I don't care how angry you are at me; I'm not leaving you behind. You're not staying behind, and we will get to that Ranger Station together."

"You son of a bitch," Ressler told him, panting, needing to stop, but knowing deep down that he couldn't.

"Yes, Donald. If being angry at me helps you keep moving, then bring it on."

"Damn you," he whispered, but stopped holding back and continued on.

"Keep moving, Donald. I hear the creek," Red said, his voice a little strained as he took Ressler's weight. In a few minutes, the sound of rushing water filled their ears and moments later the creek came into view. It was now much wider, running deep and fast after the rain and gleaming in the faint light of the rapidly disappearing twilight.

"If the situation weren't so dire, I'd stop right here. It is rather captivating."

"You have my permission," Ressler told him between clenched teeth as a cold shiver went through him.

With a soft chuckle, Red grasped Ressler tighter and turned them down stream, heading toward the lake and the Ranger's Station. "Keep going. We just have to follow this to the lake and we're there, Donald. We got this," he encouraged.

"Speak for yourself," Ressler gasped.

Together they made their way through the woods, following the creek on a gentle descent. As they walked, the sun set fully, leaving them in darkness. Both men knew the advantage they had of Dembe keeping Peterson's men at bay up at the mine was now gone. Someone could be climbing down the slope behind them, even now, in the darkness. "Keep going, Donald," Red whispered, echoing their thoughts.

They trudged along together beside the fast running water, slowly descending. After a while the creek took a slightly steeper route, the water rushing down over some rocks. The view spread out around them, and Red stopped. "There it is. We're almost there." The lake was wide and silver before them, and on its shore, the outline of a building to their right. Ressler was unable to think beyond taking one step, then another, his body a mass of pain and his head pounding, feeling as if he were about to collapse.

"Red," he gasped after a while, shivering in the humid night air.

"I know, keep going," Red whispered in return, his voice coming out of the darkness close to his ear.

"Something..." Ressler staggered and Red pulled him back up. "... is wrong."

"You're still losing blood. It's affecting you badly now," Red reassured him as the ground leveled out, the trees dropped behind them and the lake filled their view. "We're almost there. Just a bit longer, and then we wait for Dembe and I'll get you out of here."

Ressler suddenly felt close to tears at the sight of the building, and his breath hitched. He couldn't find the words, nor did he have the breath to put into words what he was feeling, or understand where the sudden emotion had come from. As if aware of the agent's mood, Red spoke softly to him as he hauled Ressler along, one step at a time as made their way toward a small wooden bridge that traversed the creek, leading toward the Ranger Station ahead. Beside the main building was a smaller work shed.

"I know this is hard for you. I'm not going to let you die out here, Donald. I won't." He paused a moment. "I can't."

Rain was starting again as a stiff breeze blew off the lake. Large individual drops fell around them, with the promise of more to come as lightning flashed on the other side of the lake.

Ressler felt, more than saw Reddington despite their close proximity in the darkness. "I can count on one hand the number of people in this world whose life I value above my own. Elizabeth, of course. Dembe, absolutely." He paused again as they maneuvered past a large tree near the low chain link fence surround the station parking lot. "And you, Donald. And that's why that bastard out there is not going to get either of us tonight. I promise you that."

Ressler's breath hitched again, still fighting back tears. He would never understand Reddington. He'd killed Prescott the day before, killed Ethan in cold blood today, and now was doing his utmost to save his life. Again. The thought of Ethan gave him something to cling to. He had to know. "Ethan," he whispered, struggling to keep moving. "Why?"

"Because he asked me to," Red replied softly. "He would rather die at my hand than Peterson's, and I gave him that."

"But he...betrayed you," Ressler panted.

"Yes, but it was not of his choosing. He made the final choice for his life though, and I honored that."

Ressler tried to make sense of that as Red dragged him across the wet parking lot, but it was hard to form thoughts through his massive headache. Rain was now falling steadily on the lake in front of them, but they were almost under cover.

"He had pancreatic cancer. The doctors had given him two more months and he wanted to set things right in this world before he left it. It's why he gave me the information on Landmark. I doubt he counted on them betraying him with his son, Christopher, to get to me."

Ressler listened, finding himself unable to comment anymore. As they climbed the few steps onto the porch, Red was searching the area with his eyes. Dembe should have been there by now. "Dembe," he said softly, more to himself than Ressler. "Where are you?" There was no sign of anyone else.

Depositing Ressler on an outside wicker chair on the porch, Red tried the front door. Of course, it was locked and there was no window near the door. This would take more than a rock to break a padlock. "Stay here," Red said, then looked at the agent. Staying there was about the only thing Ressler could do now. "Hang in there, Donald," he added, then stepped off the porch into the rain to check out the perimeter of the building.

Ressler waited, slumped on the chair as the rain came down heavily around him, cocooning him in a dry shelter. The lake was no longer visible, except for each time the lightning flashed above them, flooding Ressler's eyes with pain. In less than a minute after Red had left, the door beside him opened, and a wet Reddington stepped out. "Come on, the power is out, but we have shelter and safety in here," Red told him as he hauled Ressler to his feet and helped him inside, closing the door and shutting out the storm behind them.

###

Ressler lay on a single bed in the Ranger's station, relieved that he was no longer on his feet. It wasn't a large room, but after being in the woods and shed it felt like the Sheraton. His bloody jacket and shirt were draped over the rail at the foot of the bed, while his holster hung from the bed head. He lay on top of the bedspread in his wet jeans, cold and slowly bleeding through his dressings. His head throbbed against the pillow. In the main room down the short hallway, the reception area was filled with pamphlets and photos of the park, along with maps on the wall showing the park outline, highlights and hiking trails. Ressler could hear Reddington in a room across the hallway that turned out to be a break room with a small bathroom attached.

"Not one phone in here works," Red told Ressler, coming back into the sleeping area. "Why in God's name was it considered progress to render phones inoperable when there is no power?" he fumed. Frustrated, he set down a bowl of water and a few things on a small set of drawers near the bed. "Alexander Graham Bell would turn in his grave."

"Radio?" Ressler asked, amazed that his brain was that alert.

"Couldn't find one. Apparently that's also a sign of progress, that these Smokey Bears no longer use them and now use cell phones. I tell you, Donald, cell phones will be the death of society as we know it." Red pulled up a chair and sat down by the bed at Ressler's side. "Good news is they do have a rather extensive first aid kit," Red told him, "to cater to all those summer tourists who do things that signs tell them not to," he said. He unwrapped rolls of bandages and gauze as Ressler's flashlight sat on the chest of drawers, illuminating the immediate area. "I think this will do the job better than my t-shirt has. Though it has performed admirably as a temporary measure."

Ressler didn't reply, aware that Reddington was mainly talking to help keep him awake. And so far, it was working.

Reddington paused, holding a roll of bandages. "You know, Donald, despite the fact you're angry at me over Henry Prescott's demise, and what happened with Ethan today, I do understand how you feel."

Ressler looked up at him in the dark, judging whether he should say anything. Yes, he was angry about Prescott. He and Prescott should both have been in jail today. Instead, he laying bleeding on a narrow bed in the middle of the woods. Life had a way of throwing curve balls at you. Especially where Reddington was involved.

"The truth is, I envy you, Donald," Red said quietly.

"You can switch places with me any time," Ressler said, shivering, "be my guest."

Red chuckled at that. "Well, I'm afraid I'm not all that good at being the one who is hurt." He placed the bandage on the set of drawers and reached for some gauze. "No, I envy you that you were willing to go to jail to face what you had done."

"Yeah, well, I never got that chance, did I?"

"No, you didn't. And I for one am very glad not to see you in leg irons today, working the chain gang."

Ressler thought of a snappy come back to that, but he was too exhausted to offer it.

"But it's eating at you. That you did wrong and didn't get to pay for your sins. And I envy that in you. Oh, I know I've teased you over the years for it, but it's just my way of covering up the fact that I admire who you are."

Ressler closed his eyes.

"You're a better man than I, Donald."

Ressler could have said something sarcastic, if he'd had a mind too. He could have brushed it off. But he didn't. "Thank you," he said. The truth was that his anger had seemingly evaporated the worse he felt. But he missed it. He'd felt more in charge when he was angry.

Reddington paused in what he was doing. "I don't want you to go down the same path I did. I once told Elizabeth I was her sin eater. It's a role I find myself accepting more and more. It's too late for me. But your honor and integrity is worth saving."

Ressler didn't have anything to say to that. He was no longer sure he had anything worth saving. He'd gone down a terribly dark path, and it was going to be a long climb back out of. But actions spoke louder than words, and it was obvious Reddington was doing everything in his power to save him today, just as he had yesterday. But it didn't mean he 100% agreed with Reddington's methods.

"Well, let's have you sit up here, so we can take care of this," Red said, effectively ending their conversation. Putting his arm under Ressler's back he helped him up to sit on the edge of the bed. Ressler groaned at the movement, but sat up, wavering as Red placed his hand on Ressler's chest for support. As Red peeled off the soaked t-shirt bandages that stuck to the wound, Ressler tried not to cry out. Breath hissing between his teeth, he sat still but couldn't stop shaking as Red exposed the wound in his side again.

"This is going to hurt," Red told him.

"I know. Just do it," Ressler panted, his eyes closed against the flashlight.

In the light of the flashlight, the gash in Ressler's side was a deep, ugly brown. It was deep, and Reddington could see the membrane that covered Ressler's intestines. He hadn't told the agent that. No point in worrying him further. "I can't stitch it," he told Ressler, who was rather relieved to hear that, "but I can hold it together somewhat with these butterfly strips, after I clean it out," Red added. Placing a rolled towel below it to catch the water runoff, Red asked if Ressler was ready, and at the agent's nod he began to wash out the wound with water. Panting hard at the pain, Ressler leaned forward and tried not to pass out. "Hurry," he gasped.

Red was moving as fast as he could. "That was actually the easy part. Now I need to wash it out with Betadine," Red said, holding the yellow bottle, "which is going to be horribly painful for you, as deep as it is."

As the antiseptic filled the gash, Ressler screamed. The world wavered in front of his eyes and he slumped against Red who stopped him falling. "I've got you," Red whispered, and lay Ressler back down, turning him to his side with the wound facing him. "I need to do it again, Donald. I'm sorry," Red told him, pouring more Betadine into the large wound. Ressler hollered again, and this time, the world did fade mercifully to black as he passed out.

###

When Ressler woke, the first thing he felt was his head exploding with pain. Unaware for a moment where he was, the burning pain in his side brought everything sharply back in focus. He was laying on his back in the small bed in the Ranger station, his head feeling huge on the pillow. It was dark, the only light coming through a window where lightning flashed every few moments. As he turned his head toward the window, more lightning flashed and he slammed his eyes shut. He gasped, grimacing in pain in the dark.

"Donald, there you are. How are you feeling?"

He was feeling terrible. Alarmingly so. "Red." Ressler moved his hand to his forehead almost afraid to touch his head for fear that it really would be twice it's normal size. "Red," he repeated, feeling helpless under the pain.

"What is it, Donald?" Red asked, switching on the flashlight, keeping it pointed toward the floor.

"Head," he said, knowing he wasn't making much sense. "Hurts." He turned his head away from the window, rolling a little to that side, ignoring the flare of pain in his torso in an attempt to block the surge of light from each flash of lightning.

Reddington was off the chair, standing above Ressler.

"Let me check," he said, and without waiting for Ressler to answer, Red's hands found Ressler's scalp. With the flashlight held in his mouth, his fingers probed until he found the small egg shape two inches above Ressler's right ear. "There it is," Red said, removing the flashlight and dropping his hands.

Ressler held his hands over his eyes, shutting out the light.

"We know you have a concussion," Red told him, "but you've had enough to know. Does this feel different?"

"Yes!" Ressler hissed through his teeth.

"I'd like to check your eyes, Donald." Red moved the flashlight up, and Ressler slowly shook his head on the pillow. "Can you open them for me, please?" Red asked.

"Can't," Ressler whispered, keeping his hands up, despite the throbbing from his ribs.

"Donald, I really need to look." Reddington leaned over him, holding the flashlight.

With an effort, Ressler uncovered and opened his eyes at Red's request. As the beam from the flashlight hit his left eye, he slammed them shut at the pain. "Dammit, Red!"

"I know. I need to though," Red said softly.

Ressler held his left eye open with his thumb and index finger as Red shone the light in it. He cried out, tears streaming from his eyes, but kept his eye open. Red watched Ressler's pupil reacting to the light. With a sigh of relief, Red took the flashlight away and Ressler closed his eyes again.

"That one looks good. I'm sorry, Donald. I know this is unbearable. Ready?"

Ressler nodded, then Red flicked the light back up. Ressler forced his eye open as before, and hollered as the light from the flashlight hit his right eye, piercing his skull like a knife. "Hang in there," Red said softly, concentrating on the pupil of Ressler's right eye. It didn't move. It didn't react to the light and was black and wide open. He'd seen enough and shut off the flashlight, patting Ressler's chest as he gasped and panted under him.

"I'm sorry, my friend," Red told him, then stood up and closed the curtains on the window, blocking out the lightning flashes of the storm.

They were silent in the dark for a moment, Ressler in too much pain to ask, and Red not wanting to face it, yet his suspicion had been confirmed.

"Donald," Red said after a couple of minutes, waiting for a response.

"Tell me," Ressler replied, his voice coarse with pain.

"It's bad. You're bleeding under your skull. Your brain is being compressed by a clot in there that's been slowly filling with blood since you first fell down the hillside hours ago."

Ressler didn't reply, taking in that information. Or attempting to. It was literally too much to digest.

Reddington stood in the dark, listening to Ressler's panting breaths. He didn't know where Dembe was, or even if he was okay. Nor did he know how to get Ressler out of here and to the help he desperately needed.


	5. Chapter 5

Red stood at the window of the reception area, looking out into the parking lot before him. It was empty. In the two hours since they had arrived at the Ranger's station, Red had checked constantly for any sign of Dembe. The storm had let up for a while, and had now resumed its drumbeat above them, blocking his view. Dembe would have been here, unless something had happened to him. Red stepped from the window and walked back to the small bedroom.

"Donald, don't go to sleep on me," he said, patting Ressler on the chest. It was hard to tell in the dark, with Ressler's eyes closed. Ressler answered with a gasp, and held one finger up to indicate he was awake. He didn't know if he'd fallen asleep or not, but was awake at Red's voice.

Red sat down on the chair again, nudging a bucket on the floor. "Still no sign of Dembe," he told Ressler, then sighed. "But the good news is, the storm is also keeping any pursuers at bay."

Ressler only half heard Reddington. He shivered under the blanket Red had put over him. His stomach churned again, and he whispered, "Puke". Red moved away from the bucket just as Ressler turned his head and threw up again, moaning with the pain that flared in his head before he lay back panting, half crying with the pain. He was going to die here; he was sure of it. After everything Reddington had done to get him here, to Dembe, the plan had fallen apart.

Reddington was beyond worried now. If Ressler didn't get medical help he would most certainly die with the building pressure on his brain. Patting Ressler on the chest he stood again, unable to sit and watch Ressler deteriorate. He needed to do something. Anything. And standing at a window waiting for Dembe was not the answer. Walking to the reception area he again tested the phones that were still dead as door nails. Resisting the urge to slam them down in frustration, he placed them back on the receivers and made a decision. He strode back into the small room.

"Donald," he said, patting Ressler on the chest again.

Ressler gave a whimper of a moan in reply.

"I need to check the work shed outside, and see if there is anything in there that can help our situation." He refrained from telling Ressler exactly what he hoped to find in the work shed.

"I'll wait here," Ressler whispered, "if you don' mind."

At that, Red had to smile. "You hold the fort in here, my friend," Red told him, then walked from the room, through the reception area, grabbed a black Park Rangers raincoat off a hook, and exited the building.

It was still raining and he pulled the raincoat close around his neck, but the wind had dropped, signaling the end of this storm cell. Lightning still flashed occasionally, but not as thick as it had been earlier. The ground was saturated under Red's feet as he walked across the soggy grass toward a small work shed. He hadn't checked it earlier, noting immediately upon their arrival that it couldn't possibly house a vehicle they could use. A rock took care of a small pane of glass near the door, allowing him to turn the latch and open it from the inside. He stepped into the dark, and shone the flashlight around. The light on it was dimming, and he would have to reserve the batteries unless he could find replacements. The contents of the shed were arranged on two shelves on the back wall, and he scanned them quickly. He soon found what he was looking for, and checked the contents of the metal tool kit. Above him, on the top shelf were two kerosene lanterns, but a quick search took that enthusiasm away when there was no kerosene to be found. The candles he'd found inside would have to do, once he needed them. If he needed them.

He prayed it wouldn't come to that, but he had learned to always be two steps ahead of the game. And in his hands, he held the makings of an emergency surgery. One that may become necessary if they couldn't get out of here.

"Oh, Donald," he whispered in the dark confines of the shed.

With another last look over the shed contents, he closed the door and stepped back outside. He'd taken only a few steps when he heard something above the rolling thunder in the distance. A voice, shouting. He crouched down, unseen in the shadow of the shed and pulled up the hood on the raincoat, peering into the darkness. Someone was approaching from the direction of the creek.

Until he knew who it was, Red ducked further back behind the shed. He turned quickly to look at the Ranger's station. He couldn't get back to Ressler without being seen. Cursing silently, he remained hidden, getting all the information first. The voice called again.

"Raymond Reddington!" the man called, facing the Ranger's station.

Three men appeared from the dark, silhouetted in the next flash of lightning. And Dembe was one of them. Even at this distance, the outline of his friend and bodyguard was unmistakable. Red cursed under his breath at the sight of a gun held to Dembe's head. Reddington stayed hidden until he knew what else, if anything, he was up against.

"I have your man!" the gunman called again, pointing the gun at Dembe's head. "And he's dead if you don't get out here."

Reddington watched, biding his time.

"I know what you did with your last friend. You put a bullet between his eyes. Somehow I don't think you're going to do that again!" the voice taunted. "Get out here, Reddington!"

Dembe called out then, his voice raised yet calm, "Raymond, no." And that earned him a swift punch in the stomach from the second man, before he returned to holding his pistol at the ready, eyes searching the area.

Reddington started at that, then placed the toolbox on the ground. If he could get it open, quietly... A loud roll of thunder sounded above them, and Red opened the toolbox, the sound hidden in the storm. The hammer inside was hefty and he picked it up, judging its weight and the distance to the men. It was a risk though. He couldn't take out both.

"I'm going to count to three, Reddington! If you're not out here by then, your man's brains are going to be splattered all over the ground." The man looked around, taking two steps closer to the Ranger station.

"One!"

Reddington sprinted across to a tree, getting a better angle.

"Two!"

The hammer rose in Red's hand. It was a long throw. If he could-

A shot rang out, deafening in the night.

"No!" Reddington cried, running from the cover of the tree. The man who had held the gun on Dembe was dead on the ground. With a surge of relief, Red saw that Dembe was still on his feet, bent over now and ramming into the second armed man. In one swift movement as he ran, Reddington threw the hammer, slamming it into the second gunman's head. He was dead before he hit the ground, joining his partner in crime.

"Raymond!" Dembe called. He ran up to Reddington, his hands tied behind his back.

"Dembe, are there any more?"

"No, I got the others with my rifle. Just these two. They came up behind me in the dark as I was coming down the ridge to where I saw you go down. I am sorry."

Reddington had heard enough. Without breaking stride, he turned and ran for the Ranger's station. "Ressler!"

###

Red slammed through the front door with Dembe on his heels, heading straight for the sleeping area. "Donald!" he called, shining the small flashlight on the bed. The small bed was empty. Ressler's blood stains on the sheets gleamed in the beam of light. "My God," Red whispered.

"Raymond! Here!" Red ran toward Dembe, who was crouched over Ressler on the floor of the break room across the hall. Above them, a small window was open a notch, letting in the rain that was increasing again. Red slammed it shut and knelt down to Ressler. He was slumped against the wall below the window, barely conscious, his weapon still in his hand.

"Red..." he moaned.

"Donald, what the hell are you doing out here?"

Ressler didn't reply. Because he didn't really know how he'd got here. Or how he'd heard the men's voices outside, managed to haul himself to his feet, then grabbed his gun. It had been like a bad dream. He'd shot into the night, blinded by the lightning flash, yet trusted that he could still hit the target outside the window. Perhaps it was a dream, and he was hallucinating. But the pain in his head told him this was real. Wasn't it?

"Thank you, Agent Ressler," Dembe said, leaning down to him on the floor.

Ressler came round a little at that. But try as he might, he couldn't reply.

"He is badly hurt. Bleeding," Dembe added, looking up at Red.

"Yes, but not from this melee," Red told him, motioning to Dembe's hands, where he cut the zip tie with scissors from the First Aid kit.

"Raymond, what is wrong with him?"

"He has a hematoma under his skull." At Dembe's shocked glance upward, Red added. "Yes. A blood clot is pressing on his brain. We need to get him help, Dembe."

"Red," Ressler gasped again, his breath coming in short pants with the pain. God, it hurt. His head was going to explode. Right here, right now. He just knew it. He didn't want to die like this.

"Get him up, Dembe, and back through there onto the bed. Carefully!"

As they lifted him between them, Ressler cried out in pain as fresh blood oozed from his side. Once back on the bed he lay there, gasping.

Red turned to Dembe, talking to him quickly, as he moved him out of the sleeping area and into the reception. "I need you to run, Dembe. Run like the wind, and find help. Anywhere. Find someone, get a phone that works and get medical help out here. Tell them he needs to be air lifted and a neurosurgeon on standby. "

Dembe was already nodding, heading for the door. "I will find help."

"Wait!" Red stepped over to the door, his hand on Dembe's arm. "Tell them his blood type. Same as mine. And get hold of Harold. He needs to know."

Dembe nodded, "I will do it, my brother," and then he was gone, running into the storm. Red watched him until he could see him no more, then went back to Ressler.

"Donald," he said, pulling the chair close to the bed again. "I need to talk to you. Can you hear me?"

"Yes," Ressler whispered, his eyes closed, with tears slowly seeping from them.

"Okay, I'll make it short and to the point, understand?"

"Yes."

"I've sent Dembe to get help. But I don't know how long that will take. If I can't get you out of here and to a hospital in the next couple of hours, I can't guarantee you're going to live through this."

Ressler didn't answer. He'd already figured that out some time ago.

"Donald?"

"Yes."

"I may have to do an emergency procedure to relieve the pressure on your brain until help comes."

"No."

"I promised you I wouldn't let you die. I intend to keep that promise."

"No."

"It would involve drilling a small hole in your skull-"

"No!"

"Donald, if that pressure isn't relieved very soon, you will die right here."

"Red, no! Plea' no!" Ressler's tongue felt thick in his mouth, and forming words was difficult. Everything was taking an effort. How had he been able to drag himself up and into the other room, and fire at the man holding Dembe and yet now he couldn't even speak properly? But he had done it, because that's what you do when someone is about to be killed. Even when you're dying yourself.

"Red. No..."

"Trust me, I won't do it unless there is absolutely no other choice," Red said, his voice softening, sounding thick in the dark. His hand fumbled, brushed past Ressler's as if to hold it and then landed on Ressler's chest. "Trust me, my friend."

And suddenly Ressler didn't want to die. Not like this. Not a slow death with his brain being pushed out of shape inside his skull. Better that he go quickly at Red's hand if his procedure should fail. Better to have it end in an instant. "O...okay."

Ressler felt Red patting his chest. "Red...?"

"Yes, Donald?"

"Tell... tell Liz..." He stopped. He couldn't voice what he wanted Red to tell Liz if he should die in the next couple of hours. How could he tell her what he'd felt for her? How could he tell her that he'd done things in his life he hadn't been proud of? How could he tell Red to explain to Liz how far down the rabbit hole he'd fallen and how sorry he was? How could he explain to Red anything about what Liz meant to him? He couldn't.

"I know, Donald. I know how you feel about her. And how sorry you are. I know, my friend. And she will know."

Ressler tried to nod his head, but couldn't. Tears flowed from his bloodshot eyes, rolling from his face and past his ears as he lay on his back. Red understood. He opened his eyes and looked at the criminal. And in the glow from a distant lightning flash outside the window, he saw the sheen of a tear rolling down the criminal's cheek.

###

Some time later, Red had retrieved the toolbox from by the shed, and found all the candles he could inside the Ranger's station, plus two AA batteries for the small flashlight. He glanced at the plastic cup beside him on the break room table, where a large drill bit was soaking in Betadine. The battery operated drill had been wiped down as best he could with the same disinfectant. The First Aid kit had been completely emptied, and its contents sorted and then repacked. In the small bathroom, Red had found a plastic shaver, and had removed the razor blades and placed them in the cup of Betadine to soak also. Two rolls of paper towels lay on the table. Another bucket. A bottle of scotch found in the break room drawer. He was ready, if need be. With a glance out the window at the rain, he thought once more of Dembe. Where was he? Had he found anyone? Called for help? At what point would Ressler cross the line and need surgery with no time left? What if he cut into Ressler and help arrived 10 minutes later? Would he have in fact killed Ressler in the process of trying to save him?

He stood up and stretched. It did not pay to think of such things. If the need arose, he would do what he needed to do. He had never second guessed himself in his life, and he certainly wasn't about to start now. He had learned to trust his instincts, and would now. Walking back into the small bedroom, he sat on the chair. Ressler appeared to be asleep, but Red knew better. It was simply that Ressler was unable to stay awake anymore. His brain was prioritizing his bodily functions, and staying awake was no longer high on the list. It was not a sound rest though. Ressler gasped and moaned softly, unable to keep his limbs from jerking a little at times.

Red shone the soft light of the flashlight over the agent, pulling back the blankets to check the dressings. Covered in sweat, Ressler shivered and moaned more as Red's fingers felt along the abdominal wound, until Red let him be and pulled the blanket back over him.

Red checked his watch again. Dembe had been gone over an hour and outside the rain fell heavily again. He had no doubt of Dembe's loyalty or determination, only concern that the storm would hinder his progress. And so he waited. Paced around the break room and reception. Checked Ressler continuously. And waited some more.

###

Thirty minutes later, Red was standing at the small bedroom window watching the storm over the lake when Ressler cried out beside him. At his side instantly, Red felt Ressler's forehead. He was cold, and all but unconscious. "Donald," he said, his hand still on Ressler. The twitching in Ressler's limbs dialed up a notch, and before his eyes, Red watched as Ressler's body went into a full seizure.

"Donald!" he called out, with difficulty, he rolled Ressler to his side and held him there as best he could. Under his hands, Ressler's body rebelled at the pressure in his brain, as the electrical circuits went haywire. "Donald, no!" Red's hands held Ressler as he writhed under him. The seizure was strong and Red battled to keep the agent on the bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed to keep Ressler on it, he held him tightly. "You stay with me," Red hissed, leaning close to Ressler. "Don't you dare!"

It seemed to last forever, yet Red timed it at just under 5 minutes before the muscle contractions slowed and Ressler's body fell completely limp, with fresh blood seeping from his wound. For the first time that night, there was no sound from Ressler. No moans, no panting breath, and his limbs were now still, limp after their exertion. The seizure was over. Red grabbed the flashlight and shone it in Ressler's eyes. He could have cried at the fact that this time, there was zero reaction from Ressler at the light hitting his eyes. Completely unconscious, he lay there as Red checked both eyes. The left was slower to react now, but did shrink. The right pupil was as big and black and unresponsive as it had been before. Ressler's eye was bloodshot around it.

It was time. He couldn't wait any longer if he was to save Ressler. He only prayed now that he hadn't left it too late. Making sure Ressler would stay on his side, he ran to the break room and gathered up his surgical supplies. There was no time to lose. With his own brain sharp and his path crystal clear, there were no more doubts. Only Ressler, and a drill and a life to be saved.


	6. Chapter 6

Candles shone in the small room, and Red had the small flashlight ready. That would be his main source of light. Ressler lay motionless on the bed, on his back again after Red had gently rolled him. With some effort, he'd moved the bed and its patient away from the wall to give himself better access. Above him the rain hammered on the roof and poured down the window panes. Lightning flashed. He was alone, but knew what he needed to do. With latex gloves he'd found in a small broom closet firmly on his hands, sleeves rolled up, he took one last look around. He needed everything close by. There would be no time to run and look for something once he began. He'd never done this before himself, but had seen it done many moons ago in a small village in Germany. The fact the man had died back then was of little consequence. Ressler was going to die very soon if he did nothing. Of that, there was no doubt.

He leaned over Ressler and gently turned the agent's head more to the side, exposing his right ear and the lump above it. While the bump itself was not the problem, it indicated where the clot was building underneath it. Deftly, he picked up the small razor, now with its sterilized blade back in place and shaved a small area, about 2 inches square on Ressler's skull. The cropped ginger blond hair fell away and Red brushed it aside, where it drifted to the floor.

"It will grow back, Donald," he said softly, now sterilizing the clear patch of skin with the Betadine. The skin gleamed in the flashlight's beam, ready for his incision. A second blade from the razor had been carefully wrapped with duct tape at one end, giving him a small handle so that he wouldn't cut his fingers. This blade would double as his scalpel. Fully concentrated on the tiny shaved patch of skin, it filled his vision. Nothing else mattered. The sound of the storm faded, and Red bent closer. The blade touched the skin and then sliced it in one smooth motion. Blood flowed freely from the incision, and Red wiped it away with sterile gauze. He made a second cut, forming a large cross. There was no movement from Ressler. Sparing a couple of seconds to look up from his work, Red watched the steady rise and fall of Ressler's chest. He nodded, satisfied, holding gauze to the twin incisions as he reached for the drill. He'd been in luck and found a battery operated one. A power drill would have sealed Ressler's fate.

It was time. Red turned Ressler's head more now, so that he'd be aiming downward. He pulled the trigger once, testing the speed, then lowered the drill bit to Ressler's skull. Still seeping blood from the two incisions, Red focused on the creamy white bone beneath. The skull that he needed to penetrate.

"Here we go, Donald," he said, and felt the sudden urge to stroke Ressler's hair in comfort. He aimed the drill under the flaps of skin, settling the drill bit on the bone, and squeezed the trigger a little. Excess blood from the incisions spun away, but he barely made a mark in the bone. He pulled the trigger again, held it longer this time until a tiny hole appeared. It wasn't nearly deep enough. One quarter inch was what he needed. He placed the drill again, and fired the trigger. Ressler's head moved away with the pressure of the drill, and Red held it in place. But that left his right hand holding the heavy drill, and he needed more control. Sweating with exertion, he looked for a brace. Short of putting Ressler's head in the corner on the floor, he had nothing, and there was no way he was dropping Ressler to the floor in this state. Persevering, he drilled again, noting with satisfaction that the hole was now about one sixteenth of an inch. He had begun. He was aiming the drill again when a sound startled him, causing him to pull the whirring drill away just in time.

"Raymond!"

Red's heart leapt. "Dembe! In here, hurry!"

Dembe entered the room, sopping wet, feet muddy, and stood staring at what Reddington was doing. "Oh, Allah," he murmured, and dropped to his knees.

"Dembe, wash your hands in that alcohol and hold his head for me. Please."

Complying, Dembe rose, washed his hands with Scotch from the bottle, and knelt at Ressler's bedside. Gently, he cradled the agent's head, as if afraid he would break it. "Help is coming," he told Red, focused on Ressler.

"Thank God. I will ask you to tell me what happened out there, but for now, please hold Donald's head still for me."

Dembe nodded, and began to pray in earnest. As the chanting continued, it calmed Red, and he once again turned his attention to Ressler's skull. The drill whirred again over the sound of thunder, and Red concentrated. A tiny bit at a time. Drilling, then pulling back. He stopped to sterilize and clean the drill bit again.

"Raymond!"

Red's eyes shot up at Dembe's warning. Ressler's limbs were twitching. "No, Donald. Not again," he urged, leaning on Ressler and holding his legs and torso as much as he could, Red felt the muscles quivering under him before Ressler's entire body went into another seizure. "Hold his head, Dembe!" Under their hands Ressler's body jerked and shook, the pressure on his brain too much. "Don't, Donald, don't," Red begged as they kept his body from moving on the bed too much. Dembe was still praying, his head close to Ressler's. His abdominal wound was bleeding again at the pressure they were exerting on his body to hold him still on the small bed. "Come on, Donald... get done..." Red pleaded, glancing at his watch. And suddenly, as quickly as it had started, the seizure was done. Ressler's body fell limp again, and with a look to each other, Red eased up off Ressler's limbs while Dembe still cradled his head.

"Is he alright, Raymond?"

Red was already feeling for Ressler's pulse in his neck. It was weak, and barely there. "He's alive, Dembe. But we need to continue and get this pressure off his brain, or he won't be for much longer."

The drill back in his hands, Red repeated the process over, drilling a tiny bit and pulling back, until he felt the drill bit give the tiniest bit. He was almost through. Setting the drill aside he washed out the wound once more with Betadine, then inspected the hole. It was one quarter inch deep, and he'd almost made it to the membrane surrounding Ressler's brain. "Keep praying, Dembe," he asked, then after cleaning the drill bit again, he centered it back in the hole.

And this time, he felt it break through. Pulling the drill back immediately, he was rewarded with blood flowing over his gloved fingers, down Ressler's neck and pooling on the bed. Dembe increased the volume of his prayers, holding Ressler's head in his dark hands as Red let the wound bleed freely. As it slowed, they turned Ressler's head so that the hole was facing down, letting more blood escape. "Come on, Donald," Red whispered, "let it out."

As it finished draining, Red placed a thick wad of Betadine soaked gauze on the wound, repositioning the skin flaps in place under it. He didn't have anything to sew it back up with, but needed it kept sterile. With Dembe lifting Ressler's head a little, Red wound a long bandage around it, holding the gauze in place over the hole. He breathed a sigh of relief when done and Dembe reached over and held Red's hand.

"You did it, my friend."

"We both did it." Red looked up at Dembe. "Now, tell me."

While Dembe spoke, Red rinsed the blood off Ressler's neck and shoulder as best he could. His gaze paused on the healed bullet hole that he'd put into the agent years ago on a Vienna rooftop. A lifetime ago when Ressler had been hunting him. "Circumstances change," he whispered, ignoring Dembe's quizzical look.

Dembe continued, realizing Reddington had been talking to Ressler. "So, then I found a house up on the main road, perhaps 2 miles from here," Dembe continued. "There was a candle burning inside, and after I banged on the door, an elderly gentleman answered. I asked if I could use his phone, but he told me he did not have a phone."

Red looked up at that, and sighed.

"But he told me that his son lived further back on the same property, and he had a phone. So he gave me his name and told me to go to his son's house, which I did, and there I managed to call Director Cooper. He then hung up to make some calls, and then called the number back to let me know what he'd arranged."

Red held his breath.

"The helicopter cannot take off in this weather. The lightning is too dangerous to fly in."

"Damn," Red said, placing his hand on Ressler's chest, feeling the comforting rise and fall. He'd known that was the likely scenario, but still, it was a blow to hear it.

"But" Dembe said, allowing himself a small smile. "Director Cooper called his SWAT commander."

Red also smiled at that. "Good for you, Harold."

"They are going to bring a surgeon and a nurse here as soon as they can contact one and get him in their armored Humvee."

"And perhaps by then this damn storm will have passed and we can get airborne," Red added, looking up at the flashes of lightning in the window. "But it's okay. The cavalry are coming."

He leaned down to Ressler. "You hear that, Donald? Your boys in blue are coming," he said softly, then added, "Or green, actually. SWAT wear green."

###

Dembe cleaned up the small room, mopping the blood off the floor and placing the medical supplies in an orderly fashion on the chest of drawers. Red checked Ressler, reaching for the flashlight to check Ressler's eyes. The left eye moved quickly as the beam of light hit it. But it was when the right eye responded a little at the beam of light, Red let go of the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Good job, Donald". The pressure had eased inside with the blood pool gone, but Ressler still wasn't out of the woods.

"How did you get back here?" Red asked Dembe.

"The younger man offered his car, but with the roads so flooded and muddy, I was not positive it would make it through. So I ran back."

"You're a good man, Dembe."

Dembe looked at Ressler lying motionless on the bed. "He's is very pale, Raymond."

Red nodded, taking in the sight of the bandage around the blood stained hair on the unconscious agent. "He lost a lot of blood today, even before we were aware of the head injury." He paused, remembering something. "He knew though." Dembe looked up. "Donald told me something was wrong long before this became evident." Red stepped away from the bed and looked out the window again, willing the vehicles to appear. "Damn..."

"You also knew. Or you would not have kept going to get him here."

Red sighed, and came to stand at the bed again, almost willing Ressler to wake up. Or at least move. Something to show he was still in there.

Dembe kept his eyes on Red. "It has been almost two hours since I spoke with Director Cooper. It should not be long now."

"Even if they get here, we still can't get Donald out of here until a helicopter can land. We can't move him, not to an armored vehicle on a bumpy road."

"You saved his life. I believe it will not have been in vain."

"Thank you, Dembe."

Red returned to the window, looking out into the rain again.

###

Not quite 30 minutes later, vehicle headlights shone into the window of the small bedroom. "Finally!" Reddington said, then walked to the front door and opened it, stepping out onto the porch. Two large armored vehicles, red and blue lights flashing, were pulling up into the parking lot. "It's like the invasion of Normandy," he told Dembe who stood behind him.

The glare of headlights illuminated silhouettes of people running toward them through the rain. One of them was Cooper. Men with assault rifles fanned out, guarding the building. Definitely like Normandy, Red thought, and stepped aside as Cooper entered the Ranger station.

"What the hell happened here tonight?" Cooper asked the second he set eyes on Reddington.

"Where is the doctor, Harold?" Red asked, ignoring Cooper for the moment.

"Here," a tall, silver haired man said, hefting his medical kit with him. He was followed in by a nurse. "Dr. Mark Hughes, Neurosurgeon," the doctor said, recognizing that Red was the person he needed to speak with.

"Through here, Dr. Hughes," Red told him, leading the way.

At the sight of Ressler on the bed, and the blood stains still on the pillow and bedspread the doctor turned to Red. "What happened here?"

And this time, Red did answer the question. "I needed to drill a burr hole into his skull to release the hematoma."

"My God," Cooper gasped behind them.

"And you literally used a drill," the surgeon said, horrified, looking at the equipment on the set of drawers. He leaned down to Ressler to check him, shining his pen light in Ressler's eyes. "He's in bad shape."

"Better than he was," Red clarified.

"We have movement in both pupils, though," Hughes added, then set about removing the bandage from Ressler's head while the nurse checked vitals. As the doctor checked the wound and drill hole, he stared at it shaking his head. "A drill. A common or garden Black and Decker drill."

Cooper fumed in the hallway, listening to the doctor.

"We can't move him until we get that helicopter here, but I can get some blood into him and stabilize him," the doctor said, and called for his nurse. As activity increased around Ressler in the small room, Cooper motioned Red outside to the reception area.

"You drilled a hole in my agent's head?"

"Yes."

"What in God's name possessed you to do that?"

"He would have died, Harold. I did what needed to be done."

With a heavy exhale of breath, Cooper paced around the room, as if unable to look at Reddington. "Yes, you did. You always do, don't you?" He shook his head and looked over at Red in the dim light. "As soon as this weather lets up, we can get Ressler to a hospital. But in the meantime, you need to leave. You shouldn't be here."

"I'm not leaving until I know he's taken care of," Red said, motioning back to where Ressler lay.

"He wouldn't need taking care of if you hadn't gone off the reservation and then drilled a hole in his head!" Cooper exploded. "What were you two doing all the way out here today? And why are there two dead men outside?"

"Harold, I don't have time for this. Suffice to say things did not go to plan and we ended up here."

Red turned, and Cooper called after him. Red didn't reply. As he entered the sleeping area, the doctor had bandaged Ressler's head again and had moved onto the large abdominal wound.

"How did he do this?" he asked, looking up at Red's entrance. "What a mess..."

"He fell down a steep embankment after saving my life, and was gouged by a tree limb on the way down. He also has a couple of cracked ribs."

"All that too?" Cooper asked from behind them. "My God, what hasn't happened to my agent today?"

Red turned to Cooper. "He hasn't died, Harold. I'd say that all things considered, that's rather a good outcome."

###

Red was sitting outside on the porch an hour later, getting some air. The storm was clearing and now it was mainly rain. Dembe came out and touched his shoulder. "You should come back in." He followed Dembe inside and found Cooper in the small sleeping area with the doctor.

"We just heard from the hospital. The medivac just lifted off and is en route. Should be here in about 20 minutes," Cooper told him.

Red nodded, looking at the unconscious Ressler on the bed. "That is good news."

Red turned to leave, when Dr. Hughes looked up at him, taking his latex gloves off. "I don't know who you are or how you managed this, but I have no doubt in my mind that this man is alive tonight because of your actions." The doctor moved forward and shook Red's hand. "Well done, sir."

"Thank you, doctor. Is he going to be okay?"

"I'll know more once we can get out of here and I get him in the OR, but I'm very optimistic. He's in good health and appears strong. Assuming he remains stable, he should do well," the doctor told Red, then nodded and returned to Ressler.

Red stood there a moment and with a look to Dembe, knew it was time to be gone. He turned to Cooper. "Harold, if one of your drivers could take us further back up into the mine, to the ridge to retrieve my vehicle we can be on our way." He kept his tone businesslike.

Cooper walked slowly in front of them to stand with them out on the porch again. "I'll have one of them do that," he said, and sent one of the guards out to find the driver. Cooper hesitated, then gave a rueful smile. "I owe you an apology. I was out of line earlier."

"Yes. But I don't need your apology. The fact that Donald is going to be okay is all that is important. Just a ride to where Dembe left the car will suffice." Red walked away, jacket and hat in hand, and Cooper watched him and Dembe walk toward the Humvee.

Reddington climbed in the back of the armored vehicle and Dembe hopped in the front. As they drove out of the park and toward the access road to the mine, the driver stole a glance in the rear view mirror. "Forgive me for asking, but is it true? You drilled a hole in Agent Ressler's head?" the driver asked.

"I did, yes."

"Agent Ressler is a good agent, and from what I heard, you saved his life," the driver told him. "Thank you for that."

Red nodded to the driver, who then turned his attention back to the road. Dembe gave him directions to the car that he had arrived in, and a few minutes later they pulled up to it. They would send a couple of men back up to retrieve the car Red and Ressler had arrived in, and take Ethan's body back to his family.

And it was as the Humvee was departing, having dropped Red and Dembe off at the top of the ridge that they both saw the helicopter approaching, flying low over the lake toward the Ranger Station. Red stood in the light rain and watched as it disappeared from view and landed in the parking lot.

"Godspeed, Donald," he whispered, then turned and got in the back of the car.

###

Three days later, Ressler was sitting up in his hospital bed, his untouched lunch in front of him. While his head still ached and felt tender following his surgery, the pressure had eased. His abdominal wound had been cleaned out and sewn back up, and a thick dressing surrounded his middle. He was on the mend. After a steady stream of visits from Liz, Aram and Samar, and Cooper that morning, he was alone for now. He'd barely had time to himself. And he apparently wasn't going to get any time now. A shadow crossed the doorway of his room, and for a split second he recalled Audrey entering his hospital room years ago. But it wasn't Audrey, and in stepped Reddington. Dropping his fedora to the table, Red stood there silently.

Ressler met his eyes, grateful and a little awkward. "You didn't let me die."

"I didn't." Red smiled, then settled into the visitor's chair near the bed. "My apologies. I see I've interrupted your lunch."

Ressler waved it off. "It tastes like cardboard. I'm good."

Red observed him, noting immediately that Ressler's eyes were back to normal. "You look so much better. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Ressler said. "Truth is, I don't remember everything that happened."

"What do you remember?" Red asked.

"Ethan. You killed him," Ressler said, but there was no malice behind his words now. He looked up at Red. "Did you find his son?"

Reddington smiled. "I did. Christopher is safe, and Ethan's legacy and the information he handed over has been given to the right people."

"Good," Ressler said. "I also remember falling and you dragging me against my will through the woods."

Red chuckled at that.

"The Ranger station. That tiny bed. You saying you admired me before you poured alcohol into my open wound," Ressler added, and at Red's worried look, Ressler smiled. "I don't remember too much after that." He looked out the window for a moment, not sure if he should ask. He'd wracked his brain and just couldn't fit all the pieces of the puzzle together. "Did I shoot someone at the Ranger station?"

"Yes, you did," Red told him, and now it was his turn to give the reassuring smile. "You saved Dembe's life. How the hell you got out of bed and did that, I don't know, but I am grateful to you."

"Then I guess we're even," Ressler said, and leaned his head back on the pillow more.

Red pulled the chair a little closer, noting how tired Ressler looked. "Is there anything else you can't remember that you'd like me to fill in the details on? I know it can be disconcerting having chunks of memory lost."

Ressler thought about that for a moment, then slowly shook his head, a slow smile forming. "I was going to ask you. I thought I wanted to know. But now I think it's best I don't remember too much about you drilling a hole in my head."

Red leaned over and patted Ressler's arm. "Fair enough," he replied. "Oh, I brought you something," he said, reaching into his coat pocket. He retrieved Ressler's small flashlight and handed it to him.

Ressler looked at the small flashlight, and instantly a memory shot through his mind. Of Red shining this into his eyes. Of searing pain.

"What's wrong?" Red asked.

What was wrong was that Ressler's head that had been fairly satisfied to be lazy was suddenly waking up. Things came into focus as if he was rewinding a movie. Going to meet Ethan with Red. Of it all going to hell in a hand basket. Ethan. What Red had done. How he'd felt about that. Prescott. What he himself had done over the past year or more. Getting drunk on Reddington's whisky. Thoughts tumbled over themselves in Ressler's mind.

"You're remembering," Red said, and it wasn't a question.

Ressler nodded. "I was angry at you, over Prescott," he said, still looking at the flashlight.

"It's okay," Red said softly.

Ressler continued, barely hearing Red. "But I was angrier at myself. I should have gone to jail for what I did. I deserved to." He rolled the small flashlight around in his fingers. Red watched him silently. "When you shone this into my eyes, I was sure I was going to die. That it was my...punishment." He looked away. "A life sentence." He couldn't find the words to say what he meant.

"You didn't deserve a punishment like that for what you'd done, Donald," Red told him.

"Didn't I?" Ressler asked quietly. "I'm not so sure."

"You've made mistakes, but you cannot let that define you going forward. Learn from it. Rise above it and ensure you are not put in that position again. You will become a better man, not in spite of Prescott, but because of him."

Ressler didn't reply to that. It would be a long time before he could think of himself as a good man again.

"And that's the man whose life I saved. The man of honor. The good man that you still are. And no one deserves a second chance more than you do. I was able to give you that, and for that I will forever be grateful."

Ressler nodded, and felt tears stinging his eyes. Red wasn't only referring to his impromptu surgery. "Because you're my sin eater too," he said softly.

"Yes."

Ressler wanted to ask who took Red's sins away. But he couldn't. He just looked down, and blinked the tears away.

Red patted his arm. "When the good doctor Hughes is happy with your progress and you get out of here, come see me. We'll talk, Donald."

Ressler nodded, and looked up at Red.

"And I replaced the bottle of whisky you... borrowed," Red said with a smile, and at that Ressler felt lighter. "You have good taste. But I certainly hope you didn't drink the whole thing that night."

He'd made a good attempt, that was for sure. "No," Ressler said. "I may never drink again," he added, smiling ruefully.

"Oh, where's the fun in that?" Red said and laughed. He patted Ressler on the arm, then picked up his fedora. "Get some rest, my friend." And with that, Reddington left.

Ressler sat in the bed alone, listening to Red's footsteps fading as he walked away. He leaned over and placed his flashlight on the table by the bed, then noticed a small plastic bag where Red's fedora had been. Curious, he picked it up. Inside were 4 waterproof matches. A small note in the envelope read, "Every good Boy Scout should have these (in case you ever need to cauterize someone's leg.) -Red"

Ressler leaned back on the pillow and smiled. He was tired. He closed his eyes, and still holding his matches, he drifted off to sleep.

THE END


End file.
